Catchpenny Circus
by misprint
Summary: A collection of challenge fiction. Seventh installment: Olive green paint. And rodents.
1. Pages Seventeen and Eighteen

**Pages Seventeen and Eighteen**

There was a stunned silence after Snitch told him. The two boys sat together, legs dangling over the edge of the roof, the low, broken city stretched out underneath their feet.

"A hunnurd dollars _is_ a lot of money," Snitch said after a moment.

"Oh, I understand," Racetrack said, casually accepting the offered cigarette. Out of the corner of his eye, Snitch saw his friend catch the end in his mouth and inhaled deeply, making the carmine tip flare and die down on his breath. Neither boy looked at the other.

The sun was setting in the distance, making the sky glow in pinks and reds that belonged to a different world, one that burned over the horizon and rippled in the waters of the East River. Racetrack coughed harshly, and pounded at his chest with his fist. Snitch licked his lips.

"And it's not like I'm gonna be a newsie forever," he mused, tilting his head to one side. He took the cigarette back from Racetrack and pulled it towards his mouth with two fingers. "Man's gotta make a living for 'imself. Y'know?"

"I know," Racetrack replied, raising his eyebrows. Snitch nodded, glad that his friend could see both sides of the matter. He took the cigarette from his mouth and examined it, holding the salty taste of it's smoke on his lips. The white paper was soiled with the grayness of his pockets, and there was a thick crease in the center, greasy and smudged. The tobacco was nearly falling out the ends of it.

"Yup," he said. "A livin'."

"A livin'," Racetrack assented.

Snitch tilted his head back and pursed his lips, letting out a thin stream of smoke that stretched itself into a filmy cloud over both their heads, before dissipating into nothingness. Out of the corner of his eye, he could see Racetrack staring down into the streets, his hands placed solidly on his knees, gaze thoughtful.

"S'on yer mind?" Snitch asked. Racetrack shook his head.

"That's why that book was missin' those pages, right?" He asked, his voice light with genuine interest. "The one that Jack gave to you, when he toldja that pages seventeen and eighteen were his favorites?"

Snitch looked at Racetrack for the first time, his eyebrows scrunching up high into his forehead.

"How'd you find out about that?" He asked. Racetrack shrugged.

"I was bored. So I took it from your bed stand."

"From my bed stand?"

"From your bed stand."

"That's theivin', that is."

"Where didja put those pages, Snitch?" Racetrack asked. Snitch regarded him for a minute, before sighing out the rest of the smoke and passing the cigarette to his friend.

"I tore 'um up," he said, feeling his shoulders slump into a relaxed position. Racetrack chuckled in admiration, as took a deep drag. "Ripped 'um out and tore 'um up." Racetrack grinned appreciatively.

"Good thing too. Otherwise I woulda made a run for it, huh?"

"I didn't like it either," Snitch remarked defensively, his eyebrows furrowing. The memories of pages seventeen and eighteen resurfaced. Small dirty text underneath the thick, red slashes of Jack's handwriting. He remembered pulling the book closer to his face, eyes wide with shock, murmuring the message under his breath. He remembered sneaking into the bathroom at night and ripping the pages out of the book with trembling fingers, shredding them and letting them flutter to the ground until the only remnants of the fearful message were the echoes of it in his own mind.

"No," Snitch repeated thoughtfully, "I didn't like it either. At first," he added.

"A body gets used to it," Racetrack agreed.

"A body gets used to it," Snitch repeated.

"Jack an' I used to be real good friends, y'know?" Racetrack changed the subject as he pinched the ends of the cigarette to keep the tobacco in, and passed it back to Snitch. "I mean…we were as thick as thieves during the strike. You remember that?"

"I remember."

"You remember when we overturned that newspaper cart on Delancey, and then had to make a run for it when the bulls came by?"

"I remember."

"You remember when we came back to the lodgin' house with all the rock candy we had stolen from that Jew store?"

"I remember."

"Yup."

"Yup."

"Yup." the two boys said simultaneously.

Snitch felt sick as he inhaled the smoke, but choked the feeling down, his heart beating dully in his chest. Racetrack was coughing again, hunched over his knees, his curved shoulders jerking up and down with every heave. Snitch turned away and stared up at the sunset again. The sun itself had just slipped beneath the river, the edges of its fingertips still glowing weakly over the rooftops, leaving a cacophony of color smeared across the clouds. Racetrack had told him that the sky was real pretty when you stopped to look at it, but Snitch had never taken him seriously.

Racetrack's coughing fit had subsided, but he remained hunched over, elbows on his knees. He seemed to be contemplating something.

"That was pretty clever of Jack. Wrote it out in a book like that. Say, where you think he got the money?" He asked. Snitch furrowed his brows and held the cigarette out to his friend.

"The money?" He repeated

"The money,"

"The money?"

"I always thought Jack was as dirt poor as the rest of us," Racetrack mused, accepting. Snitch tucked the tip of his tongue into the crevasse between his front teeth and upper lip, his brows furrowed in thought. His teeth felt dirty and soft, and it made him feel dissatisfied somehow.

"I dunno," he said finally. "I guess he's gettin' it from someone else,"

"I guess,"

"I guess," Snitch repeated.

"Because a hunnurd dollars _is_ a lotta money," Racetrack said, raising his eyebrows.

"That's a lotta money," Snitch agreed.

"A lot."

"A lot."

There was an easy silence that passed between the two boys. Snitch's stomach still felt hot and sick inside of him, but the initial anxiety he had been battling with had seeped away, blown out with the smoke, aimlessly floating upwards towards heaven. They passed the cigarette back and forth with the ease of two old friends, silent in their reminiscing and thoughts. The city was becoming quieter underneath them, as night slowly spread its fingers across the sky, and the lamps in the tenements were extinguished. The raucous laughter of a few night wanderers echoed throughout the alleyways. Snitch thought he heard Jack's distinctive chuckle, but brushed the feeling away, not wanting to let his thoughts stray in that direction.

He remembered a time when he and Racetrack used to find themselves on the corners when the sun began to set. The both of them were night owls, unable to fall dead asleep like the rest of the boys. Those nights were the happiest in Snitch's memory, varied and free. Sometimes they snuck into the pubs that played ragtime all night and found themselves girls, sometimes they stole a whiskey or two and found themselves drunk, and sometimes they simply sat on the curb, passed a cigarette back and forth, and found themselves. They always had to sneak up the fire escape in the lodging house, since Kloppman wouldn't let anyone in past midnight, whether they lived there or not. Snitch smiled to himself, feeling almost happy, despite his predicament.

"We used to be good friends too, huh?" Racetrack's voice cut into his thoughts. Snitch felt his insides tighten with shock and guilt. He turned towards Racetrack, brows furrowed in disagreement.

"Race, we're still friends." He insisted. Racetrack glanced up at him, cigarette dangling carelessly from his lips, fingers folded together comfortably.

"We are?" He asked, his voice thick with doubt. Snitch nodded, lips pressed together.

"We are." He repeated. "This changes nothing, right?"

"Changes nothin'." Racetrack repeated, as though memorizing the words.

"It changes nothin'."

"Changes nothin'."

"Nothin'." Snitch confirmed. Racetrack's brow smoothed, and a smile came to his lips.

"Nothin'." He agreed placidly.

Snitch sighed. It looked like he didn't have much of a choice. It was almost midnight, and Jack would soon be around with the hundred dollars. He sighed once more, as Racetrack passed him the stub of the cigarette. The ember tip was so close, it lit up his fingers, illuminating the smudges and scars that decorated the skin. Snitch shook his head and pushed Racetrack's hand away.

"You finish it." He told him. "S'yours."

Racetrack watched him for a moment, before his face split open in a grin. "Yeah?"

"Yeah."

"Yeah."

Snitch waited, as Racetrack took his time enjoying the last cigarette. He left it between his lips until it was little more than a stub, before spitting it out. The two boys leaned over the edge of the building and watched as the burning redness of it drifted down, caught on the wind, tipping and turning and landing gently on the pavement, where it smoked itself to ruins.

Racetrack sighed in relief, a smile lighting the corners of his lips. "Thanks, buddy, I needed that."

"Least I could do," Snitch replied amiably. He leaned sideways and reached into his pocket, hands suddenly very sweaty. They circled around the cold, wooden shaft of the knife.

He pulled it from his pocket and held it loosely in front of him, feeling almost sheepish. The tip was broken off, leaving it more of a jagged scrap than an actual weapon. But it would do. He looked up at Racetrack, who wasn't looking quite as composed as he was a moment ago. His face had gone rather pale underneath the gold color of his skin, and his hands were clenched rather tightly, eyes fastened on the blade. Snitch felt hurt.

"No hard feelings, right?" He asked, turning the knife until it was pointed at his friend. Racetrack swallowed.

"Sure," he said. If anything else, his voice was steady, and the smile on his face looked almost natural. "No hard feelings."

"Cuz…y'know," Snitch said, as his friend raised his eyes to his face. "A hunnurd dollars _is_ a lot of money."

--

Write about your FAVORITE newsie from the point of view of your  
LEAST FAVORITE newsie. (No cheating!)  
  
Any length  
1899-ish era  
Any genre  
  
It can be a conversation, a narration, whatever you want. And that  
doesn't have to be your entire story, though it certainly could be.  
  
The story should revolve around (or just feature) one of these  
conflicts:  
-a broken knife  
-missing pants  
-a book which is missing crucial pages  
-someone's allergies  
-a boarded up door


	2. 1 800 873 8212

**

604-872-8212

**

I'm fourteen years old, and I'm on top of a boy two years my senior who's lifting the hem of my shirt up past my stomach.

Things are getting out of hand.

Funny thing is that most of the female population of my school would be willing to chop off an arm in order to change places with me in this situation. And no, don't worry, the sweet, sweet irony of this is not lost on me. In fact, I'm almost laughing, but I'm afraid to make a sound. The only thing that I'm fully and consciously aware of is the fact that if this kind of thing is happening, it shouldn't be happening on my best friend's bed while he's out shoe shopping with his mom, and his dad is choking back gin and tonic in the kitchen below us.

"Um," I say.

Up close, Spot Conlon's eyes aren't the crystal blue they seem to be. There's shots of green and gray and a weird silver that you'd miss if you didn't see it this close. His lips are kind of thin, and you can see bits of blonde stubble guilding the space in front of his ears and the sharp ridge of his chin. But his smirk is still the same. You'd think it was worn into his face, it came so natural. This is the smirk that has many girls weak in the knees, but I think that I can safely say at this point in time that I, yes I indeed, am the weakest.

But why am I thinking this? Why aren't I thinking of condoms or birth control or counselling or those lovely rape relief centers that you can reach at the end of eleven easy numbers? 1-800…

"You afraid?" He asks.

"Um," I repeat.

Up close, Spot Conlon isn't as skinny as he looks either. In fact, wiry muscles thread their way across his arms and chest. I know this, because he's not wearing a shirt. Exactly when he took his shirt off is a mystery to me, one moment it was there, and the next it wasn't. But that's the way everything started here. We were sitting on opposite sides of the bed, our feet barely touching, my eyes wandering around the room and alighting on the different posters that Racetrack had pinned up on his off-white walls. The next thing I know, we're cross legged and inches away. Then, he's laid down and rested his head on my lap. Then I've laid down too, staring up at the cracked white ceiling. Then he's cinched up so he's lying on his front, chest pressed into my stomach, chin resting on his folded hands which are inches away from where the wire of my bra lines my shirt. Then we're on our sides, facing one another, his hands rubbing up and down my ribs.

And now I'm on top of him. And his shirt is gone, and my shirt's half up my stomach, and my hair is covering my eyes so I don't have to look at him.

Yes, yes I am afraid. I'm so afraid that I feel like my teeth are rattling inside my head and my flesh is going to burn and broil and char until I'm just a pile of tight, tight bones and loose, loose ashes. But I'm also on top of you. And, correct me if I'm wrong, but isn't being on top a sign of aggression and instigation? I'm initating, aren't I? What's my line? What do I do? Why am I doing this at all?

Spot's hands encircle my waist underneath the shirt, rubbing against my skin, and he pulls me down against his body. This is not good. This is not good. This is not good. 1-800…

"We're just cuddling, s'all." Spot says, but his smirk seems to say something else. I don't know what to say. I don't know what to do. My neck is tired from holding my heavy, heavy head up so our faces don't touch.

"I think Racetrack's home," I say.

"No he ain't,"

"I think he is," I repeat. Spot's smirk deepens.

"You are afraid, aintcha?" He asks. One hand slips out from under my shirt and darts to my face where, with cool long fingers, the hair in front of my eyes is pushed back and I find myself caught like a deer in the headlights in his own searing gaze. I avert my eyes from his, but he's already seen what I had been hiding. Feeling lost, I droop my head down against his neck and press my face up against the skin, trying to regain my composure. Cuddling. That's all. Just cuddling. I try to make the words soothe me. After all, I've never cuddled with anyone before. This is just cuddling.

"You've got a hot body," He whispers to the top of my head.

Still cuddling. Still cuddling. Still cuddling.

I realize, with a strange sensation forming at the pit of my stomach, that my face is burning. I know that the skin above my cheekbones is turning a slight pink. Humiliating. I feel humiliated, but I'm not sure why. It might just be my body…pressed up against someone like this is not something I'm familiar with, and the way he's edging his hands along my waist and sketching my shape against my skin is making me tingle with embarassment and anxiety. This past year I've almost been working to make myself as unnatractive as possible…ill fitting jeans that are torn around the knees and my dad's old work blouses that are disgusting colours and make me look pale and skinny, buttoned up over a dirty tank top. Hair that's too short and makes my eyes look faded and sunken, hair that I dyed green on a whim only to find that it looked awful. The idea of someone even wanting to find a shape under that mess was ridiculous…

And the idea of someone actually going ahead and reaching under all that mess was even more ridiculous. And even more frightening.

"You didn't answer my question," he tells me. "Are you afraid?"

Making a grandiose effort to regain my composure, I take in a deep breath and reply.

"I'm not afraid," I tell him. "After all, we're only cuddling."

His laugh is rough, his breath hot on the top of my hair, his fingers becoming more insistent underneath my shirt.

"You're cute," he tells me. "And you want me t'stop. I can tell." My breath catches in my throat as he brings my face up and catches my eyes once more in his. "Kinda turns me on."

1-800…1-800…I've seen this commercial a thousand times. My brain scrambles for the number as he leans up, his gorgeous eyes fastened on mine the entire time. 1-800…773? 774? 77…

I'm not thinking because I'm kissing Spot Conlon.

Well, he's more kissing me, really. I'm stiff as a board, as though my body has decided that now is a good time for rigor mortis. I feel as though I'm speaking in slow motion, lips barely moving as he attacks me. Steamy porno kisses would be a good description, but when I think "porno" I want to throw up. I can feel his tongue, and it's making me feel even sicker, pressing against my mouth and trying to part my lips for me.

I'm out of breath. This has to stop.

I pull back, but his hand is on the back of my neck while the other one is fiddling around my front somehow. I'm still stuck in porno kisses, and it's only when I feel the rough pads of his guitar player fingers brush my collar bone that I realize he's unbuttoning my shirt.

Letting loose an ungainly "mmm" sort of sound, I roll over to the side and let my fingers wrench away from the mattress and close tightly around the buttons, fumbling at them and trying to redo them back up. He props himself up on his elbows, looking more like a model in a magazine than a sixteen year old punky kid with messy hair and beautiful eyes. I get one done up, but now he's on top of me, his hands around my wrists, pressing them above my head, his smile nearly against my frozen mouth. His fingers fit all the way around my wrists until I'm encircled with him. 1-800-772? 872? 873?

This is the first time I've lain with anyone like this, his hip bones are pressing against the inside of my things and his chest is flat against mine, I can feel his heart beat drumming in rhythm with mine through the cage of his ribs. He holds my wrists with one hand and begins to undo the buttons on my dad's shirt with the other. I have a picture of my dad in this shirt hanging on my wall at home. I have to close my eyes.

"Um…don't do that. Spot, don't do that," I tell him, feeling my face burn red. I must look like an idiot. One moment I'm on top of him in the sort of position you'd only see on the late night sex shows, and the next I'm acting like I'm thirteen.

I'm not. I'm fourteen.

I can hear him laugh slightly, and I can almost _feel_ the smirk that's lining his face.

"Don't _worry,_" He tells me. "It's not like you're not wearing anything underneath,"

This is true.

But it doesn't mean that this doesn't suck.

He finishes with the buttons and presses himself back up against me. My tank top has ridden up past my stomach, and the sensation of his skin pressing up against mine makes me feel warm and naked and sick. Swallowing is difficult, every word I seem to choke on.

I open my eyes to see him smirking again.

"Hmm," he murmurs, bringing a hand up to brush putrid green lock of hair off my forehead. I start when I feel that it's slick with sweat. "Flushed face…pounding heart…kinda sweaty…now unless you've just had a workout…" He leaned in and pressed his lips against my ear. "This can only mean one thing…"

This can only mean one thing? What's _that _supposed to mean? His laugh seemed to make me freeze. His hand slid down my front and slid the button on my jeans open. And I suddenly realize.

Alarm bells.

_This can only mean one thing._

"Side effects to the medication I take for genital herpes?" I blurt out.

He stops. His fingers are just barely under the band of my underwear. The silence that comes over the both of us seems thick enough to make me suffocate. His breath suddenly doesn't seem so heavy any more.

"What?" He asks.

"Heart palpitations," I tell him, surprised at how matter of a fact I sound. "Flushed face, breaking out in sweats, nausea…the doctor told me that they would be on again off again…but I guess you caught me at the wrong time."

He seems to be as frozen as I was less than a few minutes ago. Was it a few minutes? Or a few seconds? Time seemed to be on a track of it's own, speeding and freezing and stretching. Spot's fingers had inched out from under my jeans, and the pressure on my wrists wasn't quite as intimidating. It was clear that he was at a loss for what to do, but all that mattered to me was that getting me out of my underwear was no longer a preferable option. The silence seemed to smother us. Something had to be said.

"Um…can you get off me, please?" I ask.

I could have stunned him with a cattle prod and he wouldn't have moved quite as fast.

Before I can speak again through the pounding of my heart deep in the root of my tongue, his shirt is over his head and I'm already buttoning mine up as though nothing had happened. He's grabbing his bag off the back of the computer chair and slinging it over his shoulders, and avoiding my eyes.

"I'll call you later," He says. He doesn't have my phone number. This would be the perfect time to say something scathing, something biting, something that would make him coil up and turn bright red. _Yeah, give me a shout when I feel like being violated next. Oh yeah, I'll just have to make time for you between my other rapists. Why not? I love a good asshole._

"Okay," I say.

He's gone.

I'm left alone, a skinny girl with gross hair and a shirt hanging off her shoulders waiting for her friend to get back.

Yes, my fingers are shaking so hard I can't do up the buttons and Racetrack is going to think that I'm trying to entice him with my half open shirt. Yes, my heart is pounding so hard I'm sure it's echoing in the cavern of my mouth and stomach. Yes, I feel as though my veins are screwed up tight to make my blood go cold before it reaches my extremeties.

But I've never been so relieved in my entire life.

--

When Racetrack comes in, I'm on his computer.

"Jesus," He says, dumping a shoe box onto his bed and kicking off his older sneakers. "When I say to come over at 4:30, I mean to come over at 4:30. How long have you been here?"

"Dunno," I say, opening up Google. My fingers flash over the keyboard as I type a few words in the search box and press the grey button underneath.

"Why don't you just take up a permanent residency?" He cracks, turning back to the box and lifting the lid.

"Converse?" I ask.

"Of course."

There's a small silence as he fits the shoes onto his feet once more and sits on his mattress. The blanket is rumpled, but he doesn't seem to notice as he lifts his foot and roughly admires it.

"Say," he remarks suddenly. "Didn't that Spot Conlon character invite himself over as well?" I shrug, glad that my face is turned away so he doesn't see the way I blink hard.

"He left," I say. "He was only looking for some action."

"What, from _you_?" Racetrack asks incredulously.

"Naw, from you. He was upset you weren't home," I reply sarcastically, glancing over my shoulder and rolling my eyes.

"S'more likely than trying to cop a feel offa you, cabbage head," He grins. I don't answer. I've pulled up the a site with a dark colour scheme and photos of women along the top, happy smiling women who look relieved. A number is printed at the bottom in thick yellow.

"Can I use your phone?" I ask.

--

Take one of your worst moments.  
Stick it in ANY era.  
Pick a POV (first person).  
Make it one of their best.

--

**Trolley**: Ah, yes. The stupidity of internet explorer is a familiar thing to me. A very…very…familiar thing. Thanks very much!  
**Strawberri Shake**: It would be Racetrack that is my favourite and Snitch my least favourite. I can't explain my prejudice against Snitch I just…don't like 'um. Thanks!  
**shakespearean fool: **Heh. Your name is teh awesome. Shocking and befuddled. I'm glad that I inspire such emotions. Thank you, dahling.  
**studentnumber24601: **Heh heh heh. Basically, Jack pays Snitch to kill Racetrack. Jack's motives for killing Race? Who cares! Secrecy is the best policy. Love!  
**Queen Kez the Wicked**: Ooh, I love titles. I understand what you're trying to say about the detatchment, basically because that's what I was going for. I'm glad you noticed! –preen- I think that was the vaguest I'll get for a while. As much as I love witholding information. –sigh-  
**Brooky. is. STONED: **Excellent. I inspire insanity. First Brooky, next the WORLD. I wouldn't say amazing, but thanks anyways! Your blown mind is much appreciated.  
**Paul**: I emailed youuu…I emailed youuu…ah ha ha!


	3. Bigots for Dummies

Interpret this **piece of shit** as you will.

**Bigots for Dummies**

Skittery awkwardly pushed his beef and broccoli around his plate and waited for Vanessa to say something.

She didn't even look up at him.

So here he was, on a date with one of the hottest girls in his school, and she wouldn't even look at him. She looked at her soup, the décor, the statues, the paintings, the figurine a few yards away from their table with a huge round stomach that he was happily rubbing, but not at him. He was looking right at her, but dropped his gaze a few minutes later, realizing that avidly watching his date choke down her miso soup was...kind of creepy.

"This is disgusting," she muttered into her soup. Skittery paused, eyebrows knotting over his nose.

"What?" He asked.

She glanced up at him for the first time ever since they entered the restaurant, glaring through the strands of hair that had fallen out of her ponytail. Her eyes were disdainful.

"Disgusting," she repeated louder. "Disgusting, _disgusting._ Y'know, gross?"

"I know!" Skittery said quickly, eager to keep the issue between themselves. He glanced around really quickly, but no one seemed to have looked over. Or if they had, they were pretending they hadn't for etiquette's sake.

"Can't believe you brought me here," Vanessa was muttering.

Skittery pretended he hadn't heard her, and concentrated on shoveling down his beef and broccoli. Maybe the date wasn't such a good idea. All of this just to get the chance to even take a swipe at first base. Second, if he was lucky. He sighed. He was never lucky. He wished that he could have just driven her out to the designated make out point overlooking the lake and not have to go through with all of this.

"So..." He glanced around the table, looking for something, any thing to lighten the mood. Quick. What did suave guys do? "You ever tried chopsticks?"

Vanessa's eyes focused on the slender wooden sticks that her date was holding out to her. Skittery held back his wince. Not suave, but at least _something._ Perhaps endearing, if nothing else. He watched her reaction hopefully, but the final glare he got didn't lift his spirits much.

"_No,_" She replied. "Why would I? I hate Chinese food." Skittery put down the chopsticks.

"We can go somewhere else, if you like..." He offered, realizing that he sounded like a grade A bitch. She gave him a withering look.

"But we're already _eating,_ Christopher. You could have told me that _before_ we fucking ordered."

Skittery didn't say anything.

He cleaned off his plate, hastily, not even bothering to look up at her once more. The chances of him getting some sort of action tonight were less than zero. Maybe he could do damage control on the way back. _Look, I'm sorry the date was crappy...and I'm really sorry that I didn't offer to take you some place else. I'm just nervous, Vanessa..._that was it. That was really good. Chicks dug anxiety. _I was just really nervous, I didn't wanna mess things up, because I...I think I really, really like..._

"Christopher? Why are you spazzing on me?"

"Huh?" Skittery's head jerked up. Vanessa was giving him a strange look.

"You're all staring into space and whatever." She regarded him for a moment or two more, before shaking her head and pushing the soup away from her so fast, it slopped over the rim of her bowl and onto the table. "Let's get out of here. Fuck. I hate this place. I hate chinks."

Skittery's eyes widened, and his head whipped around, checking to see if anyone had heard. Vanessa was not taking pains to be quiet.

"Chinks and gooks," she repeated loudly. "Fucking hate 'um."

Skittery turned back to the table and tried to look invisible. He didn't think it was working. He could hear a few conversations around the table go quiet, as the parties turned in their direction.

"Vanessa..." He mumbled.

"So they bringing our check our what?" Vanessa demanded. "So fucking slow...no _wonder_ they lost the war..."

"Ness, that was the Japanese..."

"Asian, whatever," she said impatiently.

Skittery heard a sharp intake of breath, and looked up to see the waiter standing over them.

His withered face was creased in a look of shock that disappeared once he saw Skittery looking up at him. He tried to smile, even though his eyebrows were scrunched up high into his forehead.

"Bill?" He said, motioning to their half empty plates. "Bill and faw-tune cookies?"

"Yes, yes _thankyou..._" Skittery said, wishing he would just leave. He didn't want Vanessa to say anything else that might make his old face even more shocked or, even worse, hurt. Vanessa watched him go with an air of distaste, before turning back to Skittery.

"Taste the soup," she told him. "Fucking disgusting." Skittery shook his head. When he spoke, his voice was quiet as cotton.

"I don't wanna taste the soup..."

"Taste it!" Vanessa demanded. "Comon! Taste it!"

"I don't wanna..."

"It's fucking disgusting. You should have told me. Taste it."

"No, I don't think..."

"Taste it! _Christ._" Vanessa sat back in her chair so hard, she nearly rocked it off it's legs. "You're just as bad as those fucking chinks!" She exclaimed loudly. Skittery could have sworn the whole restaurant went quiet.

He wanted just to leave.

The waiter came back, shoving a bill under Skittery's nose, along with two bent moon shaped cookies, slightly brown near the creases. Before Skittery could thank him, he had bustled off once more, making him feel worse than ever.

"The fuck is this shit?" Vanessa asked, motioning to the cookies.

"Fortune cookies," Skittery said, trying to reconcile. He passed one over to her, trying to ignore the look of disgust on her face, and the way her nose wrinkled up against her eyes. "You eat them and there's paper inside..."

He sighed and looked down at his own. He didn't feel like eating anymore, really. He took the two sides in his fingers, and tried to go for appeasement tactics.

"Look, Vanessa..." He began. "I'm sorry it's been such a crappy date, I just...I thought...I should have offered to take you somewhere before we ordered, but I was just so...so _nervous,_" he split the cookie between his fingers, listening to the rustle of the paper inside. Vanessa had gone silent on the other end of the table, and Skittery took this as the cue to continue. "I'm really nervous around you, but...but I think it's because...I really, really like you Vanessa. A lot. And I think that..."

The printed words became clear between his fingers, as he brushed the crumbs away. "I think that...maybe...do you wanna go out again some time? You can choose the place, I just...just..." His bleary eyes focused on the small, bold print.

**Your date is gone.**

He whipped his head up to see an empty chair across from him, and his mouth opened in a gape. Scanning the restaurant quickly, he caught sight of Vanessa's ponytail swinging as she pushed through the front doors and into the darkness of the night. He furrowed his brows, and then looked down at the fortune once again. There was a smaller one printed underneath.

**You have no penis.**

He leaned forwards and banged his head against the table.

Write about someone who finds a startling message in their fortune  
cookie...

**Jacky Higgins: **Ah. Cry not, sweet one, for 'twas long, long ago. Around two yearsish, this coming fall. I'm really sorry about your worst moment, I know how you feel. I was going to write something about a death, but I couldn't find any way to turn it into something good, so I gave up and went with second worst. Thanks for the support, love.  
**Coin**Ooh, that's my plan. I'm going to sexualize revolutionary education. Strike that. I'm going to revolutionize sexual education. **That's** the one. Yes, more focuses on fetishes and consent and whatnot. Thanks very much for the comments!

**Mondie: **I love you so so so so so so so so so so so so so so so so so so so so so so so so so so so so so so so so so so much. And **I** didn't even copy control that. Okay, so I did. Actually. Honestly. But it's late, and I'm tired. But the intention was **so **there.

**Falco Conlon: **Thanks super much Falco. It's wonderful having your support, and I appreciate it so so much. Love!

**Studentnumber24601: **yeah. I think I hit my vaguest on that fic. I broke the alarm. –motions to smoking apparatus on wall- I accept your major hugs with much dignity as can be displayed during major hugs. I was unsure of how to turn it into best moment, so it's kind of a best moment by comparison, in a way. It could've ended like **this, **but instead it ended like **that,** which is significantly better than **this.** Point A, point B...heh...B...so forth and so on. Hrm...if you emailed me the beta that evening, I did not receive it. ? Love you muchly, B.

**Fantasy3: **I'm glad you liked it. Took a lot of work getting that one down. -- And yes, it did happen to me, and I wish I was that witty at the time. –rolls eyes- Thanks very much for your review!  
**shakesperean fool: **Fun fact! That phone number is the actual phone number for the rape relief center in Vancouver. I like doing shit like that. That is...adding in fun stuff, not...raping...0.o I like writing Spot Conlon as an ass. To me, he is nothing else. –toothy grin- Thanks!  
**Queen Kez the Wicked: **You are my sunshiiiiiine...my only sunshiiiiiine...  
**Mmmmmmush: **Thanks very much. No, sadly, I didn't call anyone, because at the time I didn't really think of it as rape at all. That's a slight artistic stretch I took with this character, who's slightly aware of the fact. But other than that, everything else is pretty much the same. 'Cept it wasn't Racetrack. Ha. I wish.  
**Bookey Elliot: **Hee. I like your name. And I'm glad you like my shit. Yeah, I was trying to go kinda disturbing with the first one, so I'm glad that came out. And as for Racetrack's compliance...hell, I don't know. Maybe he's just a nice guy. -- Thanks!


	4. Saved by the Bell

****

Saved by the Bell

"Sometimes I'm not so sure about love," Skittery mused. His eyes twitched towards the knife lying beside him.

"Yes," Racetrack replied. "But riddle me this, Romeo...is your self imposed castration really the answer?"

The rusty iron bed was set up directly across from the dingy kitchen unit. Roped around the metal rungs were jagged, silver stars attached to a crinkly sort of wire. They were poking into Racetrack's back, and making him itch. Skittery stood at the sink, clad in nothing but a pair of torn jeans, the zipper at the front already half open.

"Yes," Skittery said, grabbing the knife from the counter top. "Yes it is."

"No it's not,"

"Yes it _is_,"

"No it's _not_,"

"Yes it _is!_"

"Put down the knife, Skittery," Racetrack said, lowering his voice slightly. He watched his roommate. Skittery watched him. They both watched each other until Skittery's mouth twisted up into a sneer and he tossed the knife into the sink.

"You're one sick fuck," Racetrack told him, as he lowered his head to his notebook once more.

Skittery pushed himself off from the counter and began to pace across the room. There were two doors facing him. One led to the washroom. One led to the room where they kept the washing and drying machine. There was no bedroom.

That's why Racetrack and Skittery always opted to take the girl back to her place.

"It's the only way," Skittery said over his shoulder to his roommate. "The only way to live deprived of this sick, incestuous motherhood."

"It's not your motherhood that I'm worried about, it's your _man_hood," Racetrack replied, without even looking up.

"Those two are so intricately related," Skittery shot back, running a slender hand through his wiry hair that seemed to stick up at every angle. Racetrack always told him that he could be the height of post apocalyptic fashion. The Nuclear Bomb, by Nathan Strange. The Mushroom Cloud, by Nathan Strange.

"So prove it," Racetrack challenged, lowering his book and focusing his clear, dark eyes on his friend. "Again, riddle me this...how is it that manhood and motherhood are so intricately related? And don't even start on that Dionysian versus Apollonian thing...that was last week."

Skittery stared at his friend through narrowed eyes, before lifting his chin up and spinning on his heel, his classic preemptive move to a good pacing session.

"Then I believe that I'll go with Oedipus, this week," he replied. Racetrack delicately raised one hand, palm up.

"Maestro..." he acknowledged.

"You are familiar with the legend of Oedipus?" Skittery questioned. Racetrack rolled his eyes.

"I could recite the legend of Oedipus at the drop of a hat."

"Good," Skittery shot back. "Then you will agree that it is a fine example of what I stand for, and why I have been sharpening that knife for the past three months?"

Racetrack squinched his lips over to the side of his face, feeling the raw flesh on the inside scrape against his teeth.

"When is Natalie coming over?" He asked.

"Four thirty. But that's beside the point," Skittery told him. "Oedipus is the classic example of mother-love mother-hate. In fleeing from his mother, he runs straight into her arms. In trying to escape his destiny, he only encourages it."

"What does that have to do with..."

"It's the perfect example!" Skittery snapped, his voice overriding the questions of his roommate. "The very prophecies made in it echo the same way that men..._all_ men...feel about women!"

"Here we go," Racetrack murmured under his breath.

"These hormones!" Skittery's fists clenched, and he pounded at a Guns 'n' Roses poster with surprising strength. "Testosterone! Adrenaline! They have only been given to me so I may proceed to break at the defenses of women any way I can, to somehow escape the own confines of my mind! Of my mother!"

"Because in being born of a woman, you can never escape them?" Racetrack finished for him.

"Exactly!" Skittery turned to his roommate with helpless eyes. "Women are a paradox, a mystery...their magic is internal and impenetrable!"

"Not as impenetrable as you think..." Racetrack muttered. Skittery quirked an eyebrow.

"Excuse me?"

"Nothing," Racetrack quickly ammended. Skittery gave him the hairy eyeball for a few more moments, before performing an instant replay.

"Women are a paradox, a mystery...their magic is internal and impenetrable! And I can't stand it!"

"You can't stand it?" Racetrack echoed.

"It's despicable!"

"It's despicable?"

"And it's despicable that I find it despicable!" Skittery roared. "Despicable that I...a representation of all men...must go round and round in circles...must be enslaved to the concept of tradgedy and climax...must be thrown at the feet of women no matter how hard I try to escape...must expose myself to the Dionysian horrors with every carress, every kiss, every orgasmic..."

"Hey, hey, hey!" Racetrack interrupted, sternly pointing a pencil at him. "What did I say about Dionysus?"

"You don't understand!" Skittery moaned. "Every time these thoughts occur to me, there's this awful, primal, pulsing feeling in the pit of my stomach...some archaic, primitive person inside that truly believes the only way to strike back at woman is to strike back at the core..."

"What, you mean like rape and shit?" Racetrack raised an eyebrow.

"_Yes,_ I mean like rape and shit," Skittery said, clasping his hands in prayer and pressing the fingertips against his mouth.

"It's five to four thirty," Racetrack noted. "Maybe we should start cleaning up..."

"It's gone on far too long!" Skittery sprung up to the counter again, pulling himself upright and grabbing at the knife from the rusty pits of the double sink. "Far too long indeed!"

"No!" Racetrack exclaimed, leaning forwards and reaching one hand out, fingers spread and palm pressed flat.

"Yes! It's the only way!"

"Put down the knife!"

"No longer will I be a slave to the inevitable hamartia!"

"_Put down the knife_!"

"This terrible and dramatic climax will no longer apply to _me_!" Skittery said, smacking the flat of the knife against his chest. "No longer will I be restless and alone, no longer will I leave woman with a little less of me left! _This is the final option_!"

"_Skittery_!"

Skittery transferred the knife into his right hand and threateningly hooked his fingers in the waistband of his pants. Racetrack threw the book to the other side of the room and pushed himself off the bed, ready to leap across the tiny flat and reverse his roommates mad ideas by force.

And then the doorbell rang.

-o-

Start with the line: "Sometimes I'm not so sure about love."  
  
and end with the line: "And then the doorbell rang."  
  
Include the line: "pit of my stomach"

-o-

This is the funnest thing I have ever written in my life.

And it just occurred to me that the theme of Skittery having no penis is disturbingly present in my later stories.

****

Falco Conlon - Ooh, wouldn't that girl getting hit by a truck be so deliciously satisfying? Thanks very much, Falco. You're the awesommest.  
**Eagle Higgins-Conlon** - Higgins Conlon? What's this? You've nabbed **both of them**? Well, at least I can still have my secret affairs with Racetrack...ha haaaa! I just wanted to give Skittery a really wacky fortune cookie. Thanks for the review!  
**Jacky Higgins - **God, there are people at my school like Vanessa. I can't stand them. You gotta wonder how they can even think that way. As for the fortune, I have no idea what it was all about. That's basically why I left it up to reader interpretation.  
**Legally Red - **Skittery is so awesome! I can never get enough of him. Vanessa is the amalgamation of everything I hate in people, so I'm glad I'm not the only one that thinks she's a bitch.  
**Rumor - **Heh heh. That first chapter always confuses people. Basically, Jack paid Snitch money to kill Racetrack. And I'm glad you enjoyed the overall image, that's what I was going for. As for the second chapter, thanks tons of much. Spot, to me, will always be a jerk. Whoop. By "bitch" I meant sort of like a whooping boy, because Vanessa really has him outdone when it comes to the other meaning. And yes! More soon indeed! -motions-  
**The Good Girl - **Blatant pimping time! ß started by the great Kez, and continued by many! It's really fun, hope to see you there!  
**Iikaspeck - **I'm glad you liked it. Aww...that's where we differ. I **love** Chinese food. Especially rice. Oh sweet Jesus, **RICE.** Pfft. I always think that my work is never as good as others when I'm writing, so don't judge yourself too harshly. If you're posting, drop me a line, 'cuz I'd love to drop by and read stuff. I like reading.


	5. Pizza Delivery Boy

****

Pizza Delivery Boy

sexy 420: hey

****

dutchy666: hi there

****

sexy 420: u wanna cyber?

****

dutchy666: hell yeah!

****

sexy 420: cool i like dutch guys lol

****

Dutchy666: i'm actually ukranian.

****

sexy 420: lol so, what do u look like?

****

dutchy666 : tall well built blonde haired blue eyed guy, part time job at dominoes pizza place.

****

sexy 420: mmmm u sound sexy

****

sexy 420: i'm a brown haired blue eyed 5"2 grrl school full time work part time. how old are you?

****

dutchy666: wow. i bet all that work must make you hungry.

****

dutchy666: say, you wanna order a pizza?

****

sexy 420: no thanks. how old are you?

****

dutchy666: we got specials, y'know. three toppings for the price of one. a third of the price!

****

sexy 420: i'm 18

****

dutchy666: eighteen, huh? well, if you want, i could lie and say you fell into the "child" category, which is twelve and under. in that case, you could get a free dino toy!

****

sexy 420: no im really not hungry

****

sexy 420: i just ate

****

sexy 420: what do u like to do in ur free time?

****

dutchy666: in that case, we can always send you some sizzling hot cinistix. nothing like the heavenly taste of cinistix to end a meal, huh?

****

sexy 420: no, thats fine, im really not all that hungry

****

dutchy666: but i haven't even told you about our new yorker special!

****

sexy 420: no really, im fine. where u from?

****

dutchy666: you know that our pepperoni pizza is the best pizza in town? no processed cheese or fake meat. the real deal. and what a deal it is! you want to hear prices?

****

sexy 420: no thanks

****

sexy 420: u wanna spice up the conversation?

****

sexy 420: common

****

sexy 420: ill tell u what im wearing...

****

dutchy666: we got spices on top of the pizza. seasonings, we call 'um, but they're sort of spices. a lot of people don't realize that, but as an ingredient, they're crucial.

****

sexy 420: no more about pizza

****

dutchy666: i bet i can change your mind. think of it...that hot, sizzling cheese...that thick pepperoni...that dripping, spicy sauce...

****

sexy 420: no, it doesn't change my mind

****

dutchy666: imagine curling your fingers into that soft, chewy dough as the sauce drips across your body, rolling around in that hot sizzling cheese, and closing your lips around that juicy pepperoni, letting the meat roll over your tongue...

****

sexy 420: well thing is i prefer to lick hot chocolate syrup off ur body

****

sexy 420: its much sweeter

****

sexy 420: what r u wearing?

****

dutchy666: we have desert pizzas too, if you like. they're on special! but for a limited time only.

****

sexy 420: really? what r the toppings so i can lik them off ur body?

****

dutchy666: depends which pizza you're ordering

****

sexy 420: ummmm kay. one with the whipped crema and cherries.

****

dutchy666: we don't got whipped cream and cherries. however, if you'd prefer, we have whipped cream and chocolate sprinkles and strawberries.

****

sexy 420: kay i wanna lick them off u

****

dutchy666: well...you'd have to order it first

****

sexy 420: but if i was at your place i would lov u to have the toppings on ur chest and then have them going downwards towards ur pants

****

dutchy666: but we can't just take the pizzas home. we'd have to pay for them, and get them delivered there.

****

sexy 420: well thing is id be at the pizza place and pull u into the back room.

****

dutchy666: ummm...you mean the freezer?

****

sexy 420: sure

****

sexy 420: we could make a heat wave

****

sexy 420: LOL

****

sexy 420: while we were in there

****

dutchy666: a heat wave? but then all the pepperoni would warm up before it was supposed to, it might go bad

****

sexy 420: wed be so caught up in the heat of the moment that we wouldn't care

****

dutchy666: you know...i've been working at dominoes for the past couple of years, and the number one thing it's taught me, as an employee of course, is to be conscientious. Over the last while, i've learned leadership skills that are indispensible when it comes to real life. i mean...you always have to think ahead in these situations.

****

dutchy666: hello?

-0-

Write a scene - maybe an argument? - consisting only of dialogue.

-0-

B: Oh, if only, if only. Maybe I should make a story about a Skittery strip bar. All the waiters look like Skittery...WITHOUT PANTS! Holy shit, that's brilliant! Thank you for the review, even though it is penis as opposed to pants. Much love.

Mondie: Have your children? I think not! Can you imagine what our children would be like? Neurotic as freaking hell! I'm glad you're going to giggle about it. You're cute. Love!

Mush's Skittles: I don't know why I am preoccupied with the sans-penis Skittery. It's seriously something subconscious, because I certainly didn't plan it like that. In fact, that "You have no penis" fortune cookie was a last minute decision. Originally, it was just going to say "You are teh suxxors," but I wanted to put a penis in there SOMEHOW. -disgruntled sigh- Thanks for the feedback, luv.

Falco Conlon: Wibble? WIBBLE? How awesome is that? Ha ha ha! Oh honey, your review made my day. It made me laaaugh, and laaaaauuugh...you're tres wonderful.

Shakesperean Fool: I'm glad. I've spent my whole life being unfunny, and now all of a sudden, I'm like that jerk in elementary school that keeps doing stupid things and making the kids laugh. Thanks so much, you're a confidence boost.

The Good Girl: Disturbing AND funny? AWESOME! I HAVE REACHED MY PEAK! Hrmm...maybe is opposed to people uploading URLS on their documents. I'll try once more with random spacing, and if it doesn't show up, email me. www. groups. Yahoo. Com / group / newsiechallenge/ type that out sans spaces and it should work.Thanks!

Iikaspeck: Have I ever told you how much your name amuses me? 'Cuz it does. "Not that manual castration would help us", no kidding! The whole point of dating guys is...the penis. Otherwise...you're not straight anymore. Well, I guess there's also love and shit...but whatever. Thanks!

Coin: I'm so glad you enjoyed it. I'm exploring my comedic powers with these challenges, and it's nice to know that I'm succeeding. Muchos gracias, love you!


	6. Dammit

****

Dammit.

"So...can't really say I pictured it like this at all," Skittery said, both eyebrows raised.

The figure in the black cloak across from him shrugged his thin, skeletal shoulders. When he spoke, his voice sounded as though it was coming from the eternal, black depths of some godforsaken, abandoned well, rattling with the sounds of thousands of souls, echoing with the screams of those long past dead.

"Who does?" He asked. "Your move."

Skittery studied the chessboard, eyes darting from one figure to the next, mapping out lines of movement and possible plans. His thin, ink flecked fingers paused, before reaching out and decisively snapping a pawn forwards one place.

"So..." He raised his eyes from the board to his partner. "What should I call you?"

The figure raised it's head, so Skittery could peer into the black depths of his hood. There were no shadows that might suggest the curves of a face, no glint to offer any hope of a set of eyes.

"I have not been asked that question in years," it replied, the voice echoing through Skittery's skull.

"Well...whaddo yer friends call you?" He asked.

"I have no friends!" The figure intoned imperiously.

"Mmm, okay, okay. So...will Death do?"

The figure paused. One robed arm came up, and from the hem peeked a set of yellowed, bone fingers. They disappeared into the depths of the hood, as though they were stroking an invisible chin.

"Death will do," the figure finally conceded. Skittery smiled politely, before motioning towards the board.

"Your move, Death," he told him.

Death seemed to take as much time deliberating as Skittery did. But who could blame him? The stakes were quite high. After a moment, the same hand reached out, and the fingers enveloped the bishop, sliding him diagonally across the board. Skittery placed the tips of his long fingers together and rested them under his chin, examining his options. It's true, he was a good chess player, but he never suspected he'd be in a situation like this. He thought he caught a good plan as he traced his pieces on the board, but a gasping, retching sound distracted him, and he peered down once more at the remnants of his own mutilated body. Skittery Norfeild lay beside the both of them, bloody and mangled, chest heaving up and down as he struggled to take in the air through the blood in his throat. Skittery wrinkled his brow.

"I don't look too good," he remarked.

"I've seen worse," Death assured him.

Skittery shrugged and moved his rook three places ahead.

Death immediately reached out and wrapped it's thin, skeleton fingers around it's queen. Victoriously, he slid her along the board just far enough to knock one of Skittery's unprotected bishops onto it's wooden side. It fell to the board with a clack that echoed through the alleyway.

"Owned!" Said Death triumphantly.

-0-

Write a scene - yes, just a scene, no backstory called for - at the grave of a newsie. Any length, but remember... it's a scene. A snapshot, if you will.

-0-

I know I updated rather quickly (twice in one day? Absolutely freaking unheard of!) But this suddenly struck me, and I started laughing too hard to breathe. I'm so going to make this into a movie.

****

Coin: Ha ha! Yes, Oh Dutchy. At first, I didn't even choose which newsie was going to be the pizza guy, but I realized that I never really write about Dutchy. He needs his fair share of cameos.

****

Omni: Ahh! You're so awesome. I think you're review got cut off, but that's alright, I

****

Shakesperean fool: Yeah...I just couldn't handle a real life only dialogue. My fetish for describing things would have been deeply...deterred. I don't like that. Not at all. I'm glad you liked it!


	7. Rodent Problem

**Rodent Problem**

The first thing Racetrack noticed when he walked into the apartment was the fact that Skittery was painting a beaver in the front room.

"What are you _doing_?" Racetrack hollered, staring in disbelief at his room mate. The animal let out a discontent whine and struggled wetly in it's captors grip. Skittery glanced up, and raised his paintbrush. Both he and the beaver were splattered in olive green.

"What's it look like?" Skittery replied.

-0-

Write a fic (length, time period, characters, so forth and so on up to you) where the only lines are "What are you doing?" and "What does it look like?"

-0-

**Omniscient Bookseller** - Ooh, perhaps I shall make a movie out of this. We've moved onto the fiction part of the year in my film class, so the idea is entirely plausible. However, **this** piece would be fun to do as well. BEAVER. Oh, and I have to ask now, because I can't wait until the next update of "It Just Won't Quit". You said that your fave fic by me was "Pure", and I remember the title, but I honestly cannot remember what it was about….do you? Could you…tell me? --;; This is what comes from deleting so many fics.

**Allaboutelephants22 - **Ahhh…that's a brilliant, brilliant name. -chuckles to self- Thanks so much! I'm glad you enjoyed them. With me being the ever critical, never-approving being that I am, it's nice to get feedback from someone other than myself. Your wish is maaaaaaa command.

**Mush's Skittles - **Ha ha ha! I'm so glad you like it. I know the feeling when I read a fic that I can visualize, so I'm glad that I can make someone else feel that way.

**Shakesperean fool - **I just wanted Death to say; "I HAVE NO FRIENDS!" For some reason, that struck me as absolutely hilarious. -shrug- I'm glad you liked it, thanks so much.

**Iikaspeck - **Christ, do I know faulty computers. -- I do not have a faulty computer, I have **the** faulty computer. Ha! Pizza delivery boy was basically me pretending I was a guy in order to fuck with people's heads in chatrooms. So it's not really fiction _per say…_but close enough. DEVIL WENT DOWN TO GEORGIA?! Wow. Now I love you.

**xxNightBright - **…I'm Jewish.

No I'm not.


End file.
